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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23192899">Knock Knock</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomqueenregnant/pseuds/fandomqueenregnant'>fandomqueenregnant</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The 100 (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Badass Clarke Griffin, Bisexual Clarke Griffin, Blood and Injury, Boston, But apparently you do, CHAPTER 7 IS ALMOST READY, Cage Wallace Needs to Die, Canon-Typical Violence, Clarke Griffin &amp; John Murphy Friendship, F/M, Help a Stranger, Hurt Clarke Griffin, I SWEAR ILL UPDATE SOON, I Should Have Been Finishing My Other Fics, Idk how you ppl like this fic so much, Injury, Injury Recovery, Is the baddest bitch to ever grace you with her presence, John Mulaney References, Like a lot of language, M/M, Missions Gone Wrong, New York, Not Abandoned, Protectiveness, SO FN SORRY, Sassy Clarke Griffin, So i'ma keep writing, Someome else should have written this, Spy Clarke Griffin, Spy!Clarke, Stabbing, Strangers, more like bromance, rated mature for language, wrong door</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 06:26:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>15,420</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23192899</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomqueenregnant/pseuds/fandomqueenregnant</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After a mission gone wrong, a seriously injured Clarke Griffin seeks out her childhood friend for temporary sanctuary. But when the door opens, it's not Wells waiting for her.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bellamy Blake &amp; Octavia Blake, Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin, Clarke Griffin &amp; Jasper Jordan, Clarke Griffin &amp; John Murphy, Clarke Griffin &amp; Marcus Kane, Clarke Griffin &amp; Raven Reyes, Monty Green &amp; Clarke Griffin, Monty Green &amp; Jasper Jordan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>84</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>289</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I really wanted a spy!clarke AU but didn't find what I was looking for...so I wrote my own. </p><p>I have to admit I'm a little proud of myself for her inner dialogue. This is my trained, badass (more than usual obv) Clarke so I wrote her a little more 'i'm-done-with-this-shit' persona than normal.</p><p>Wish me luck.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Well <em>shit</em>. Now was not the time to get lost.</p><p>Clarke stumbled around another corner, this time only half sure it was the right one. She couldn't help but notice the lack of street lights on, which was odd for a big city like Boston.</p><p>But what the hell did she know, last time she'd been there was almost six years ago with a map and a friend at her side instead of a damn stab wound and a 9mm tucked into the back of her jeans. Things would be different.</p><p>Things would also be a <em>lot</em> easier if Boston hadn't been mapped by a damn lunatic. At least in New York you know where to go, <em>it's a grid system, motherfucker!</em></p><p>But it'd be fine, Wells would help her and she'd be <em>fine</em>.</p><p>It had been over half a decade since she had talked to her childhood friend,  but he'd take her in, help her. He had always said his door was open, hell, that cinnamon roll would take in almost anyone. Clarke would be okay, would be safe.</p><p>She was <strike>almost</strike> eighty-four percent sure.</p><p>With another look over her shoulder, Clarke crossed what was supposed to be the right street, blood soaking through the top of her jeans. Then she noticed a jogging couple heading towards her, chatting about their latest dinner party or something, she imagined. Why they were out so damn early was beyond her, let alone when it was below sixty degrees outside. They probably had to get up early from their cute little apartment and put on their new tennis-shoes and go around the block before getting into their perky little Prius' and going to their little law firm and--</p><p>Okay, <em>maybe</em> she was a <em>little</em> too invested in finding a distraction.</p><p>The woman slowed slightly, probably concerned about the limping girl clutching her side. But it was <em>not</em> the time for fucking suburban house wives so she just gave a small smile and struggled to walk faster. No doubt she looked like crap, her once tight and immaculate bun only half up and crusted with <em>something</em>, her clothes, though dark colors, stank rather evidently of blood. This was to say nothing of her face, which stung from one blow or another but it'd been hours since Clarke had seen a mirror.</p><p>As soon as they passed, she let out out a relieved sigh, immediately kicking herself as it ignited another wave of nauseous flame in her stomach. </p><p>Her eyes caught a mail box a few yards ahead with the blue thingy on the side, to this day Clarke didn't know how to use the plastic stick. Every other house had a red one but seemingly centuries ago, she had painted it for him, a little rebellion for the once innocent thirteen year olds. Looking back on it as an educated twenty-two year old woman, it was <em>probably</em> illegal. Stupid HOA.</p><p>A few seconds later her feet had stumbled close enough to see the details of the house, grateful Wells' parents hadn't decided to live in the city. If Clarke had to go up an apartment complex, she might have just sat in the elevator till someone found her body. The three steps to get to the door were bad enough, pulling at her side till the door started to tilt. </p><p>Though steel toed boots were a great idea at the time, and did their fair share earlier, Clarke felt like fucking Popeye with cinder blocks on her feet. With a shake of her head, she pushed the dark blotches away and reached the white door. Without bothering to look for a doorbell in the dark--<em>who the hell doesn't have a porch light?  </em>The realization that he might not be home hit her like a cold bucket of water. She'd be left to the wolves, well, more accurately, the rats.</p><p>Pushing the thought from her mind, Clarke started banging on the door with her palm, coincidentally getting blood on the pale paint.</p><p>Oops.</p><p>"<em>Wells!  </em>Wells open up. Get your ass out of bed please!" She hollered while continuing to <strike>knock</strike> hit the door with her available hand, honestly it was a little disappointing to not see her frosty breath. For a second the her own voice was too much and she stumbled, leaning on the door frame.</p><p>Just because it was her lucky day, she landed on the right side of the door, which <em>had</em> to be her injured side. After way too long the door was yanked open, exposing a dark hallway with a figure holding the door. "<em>Thank God</em>, Wells I need your help, I--"</p><p>Clarke promptly shut up as she saw it was <em>not</em> Wells who had opened the door. He was taller and leaner with crazy curly hair, wearing an expression only someone who has just pulled out of bed at two in the morning can achieve.</p><p>"Who the hell are you?" <em>Damn</em>, his voice was deep.</p><p>She licked her dry lips, wincing as she got a crude reminder of exactly where that split lip was. "Where's...ah, where's Wells Jaha?"</p><p>The not-Wells ran a hand down his face, taking a lifetime to answer--<em>her</em> lifetime, mind you. She was bleeding out on this porch and he was <em>tired?</em>  Boo. Fucking. Hoo. "Jaha? He moved away a few years ago, you won't find him here."</p><p>Oh no. No, no, no. She was going to die, like actually die. <em>Fuck</em>. With as much effort as she could, Clarke tried to keep her composure. "O-okay I, ah--sorry I'll just...Yeah, sorry."</p><p>The guy looked around behind her, probably looking for a car or something. "Yeah, don't go banging on random doors at two o'clock next time if your not sure, Princess. <em>Other people</em> have to sleep." He started to close the door when his eyes flickered to where she'd knocked and...left crimson handprints.</p><p>His mouth made an 'O' and he looked back at her, eyes finally <em>looking</em> at her. One hand shot to the side and suddenly the porch light came on. Clarke would have fallen over, the light destroying any grip she might have had on a steady line of sight, had the house not held her up.</p><p>She squeezed her eyes shut, biting down on her already bleeding lip.<em> Keep yourself together</em>. </p><p>"Holy shit."</p><p>Clarke chuckled, which, no surprise, led to a coughing fit. "I've been--been called worse."</p><p>When her eyes found his face again, he was still taking everything in. The nasty hair, the bloody shirt and caked leather jacket, not to mention the bruises she knew were already forming.</p><p>And if she was being honest, holding her side <em>exactly</em> like someone in a movie when they get hurt.</p><p>"Are you okay? You should come inside." </p><p>She shook her head, slowly this time. "N-no, I'm fine. Sorry to bother you, won't...won't happen again." <em>Cause I'll be dead.</em></p><p>Clarke started to push off the door frame, ignoring the black spots again. She wasn't going to get this guy wrapped into her crap, wasn't going to get someone else hurt. Wells was already associated with her and a potential easy target, and she was desperate. But not <em>that</em> desperate.</p><p>"Lady, no your not. Seriously, you need help." If only Raven could see her now, re-enacting some blockbuster scene with some hot guy. </p><p>Before she could protest further, the stranger wrapped an arm around her un-injured side and helped her into the house. Well, <em>helped</em> is a strong word. More like dragged, seeing as Clarke didn't want to come in in the first place and could barely feel her legs.</p><p>He steered them towards what looked like a kitchen or small dining room thingy. As they passed a wall, he turned on lights and made her stumble again, which--shocker--led to her nearly falling over again.</p><p>"Well aren't you just--just a prince ch-charming? Not even taking me to dinner first?" </p><p>He huffed, shaking his head. "Aren't <em>you</em> just charming--"</p><p>He was stopped short by someone running down the stairs, yelling fifty fucking decibels too loud. "Bell, what the hell is going--"</p><p>It was a girl, probably same age as Clarke, that looked almost exactly like the guy--<em>Bell,</em> with dark hair and olive skin and equally attractive honestly. When she saw her brother, or who Clarke <em>assumed</em> was her brother setting a strange girl down at the table, she stopped short. "Who's this?"</p><p>The guy's head whipped around, one arm still around her side as she eased into a chair. "It's complicated, O. I need you to go get the first aid kit and your phone."</p><p>With only a moments hesitation, she bolted off down a hall. And <em>crap </em>sitting down did<em> not </em>dowonders for her side, the new angle prompting another pulse of blood, only half held in by her hand. Not to mention the handgun already chafing against her spine.</p><p>Bell--by the way, what the hell kind of name is <em>Bell-- </em>took his arm away and stood on front of her, face about as concerned as Clarke would assume was normal. Boosting her faith they weren't working for Wallace to a solid seventy-eight percent. It wasn't completely irrational to assume something was fishy about her friend suddenly not living there.</p><p>The girl was back in seconds, almost skidding to a stop next to them and setting the white box on the table next to her. "I'll call an ambulance."</p><p>Clarke heart practically stopped and it wasn't from the fact she was dying. That could not fucking happen. "No!" She grabbed a handful of Bell's collar and pulled him closer. "You, you can't. EMT means cops and...cops means dirty cops a-and that means bad news." Relaxing slightly, she let go, her point had been made. "Do you have any alcohol--pardon, a <em>lot</em> of alcohol? And some towels, definitely towels."</p><p>O, or whatever vowel he had said, looked at her supposed brother, confused on what to do. Clarke didn't have time for this, at all. After a second of debate, reading her face in silence, he sighed. "Get the whiskey."</p><p>A weight lifted off her chest, Clarke gave him a small smile and winced again, her face in no condition to move that much. "Thank you. "</p><p>"I got 'em." The dark haired girl handed her a towel and set the bottle of liquid joy on the table. </p><p>Clarke mumbled a "Thanks" and pressed it down where her hand had been over her shirt.</p><p>She looked up to them staring at her, just standing there. Real useful they were. Bell was the first to break a thankfully short silence. "If you don't want me to call an ambulance you have to give me somethin', Princess."</p><p>He was right, no sane person wouldn't ask questions. "My name's Clarke. And-and I'll give you an explanation. Just...give me a minute. Please."</p><p>Bell nodded. "I can give you that. I'm Bellamy and this is Octavia, my--"</p><p>"Sister, yeah yeah. Nice to-to meet you." She was to tired to be polite, manners could wait till her life force wasn't in short supply. If ever. Clarke started to take off her jacket, rather unsuccessfully with one hand and dried blood and sweat making it a second skin.</p><p>Octavia took a step closer and helped her peal it off, apologizing as Clarke let out a sharp gasp. When it was gone, she finally got a good look at it and the absolute mess it had made on her wardrobe. "I fucking loved this shirt."</p><p>Though she had meant to say it under her breath, Bellamy snorted. "That's your concern right now?"</p><p>Clarke looked from him to her shirt and back at him. This was one of the best tank tops she had ever owned, one of those that had thick sleeves instead of the stupid spaghetti straps. It was a staple item in her outfits honestly. "Not quite number one, but close. Is there a uh, needle and thread in the kit?"</p><p>He gave her a questioning look and nodded, handing it to her. "You're not going to stitch that up <em>here</em> are you?"</p><p>Her less-bloody hand opened it and found scissors. "Unless you're going to kick me out, which I'd understand."</p><p>The sister--Octavia pulled up a chair, positioning herself in between Bellamy and Clarke. Who didn't fail to notice his step forward, closer to his sister. "I won't-won't hurt her, don't worry. Not my style."</p><p>He didn't say anything, eyes flickering across Clarke's disaster of an appearance. Whatever, not the top priority. She looked at Octavia, who had taken the box from her and begun to dig through it. "Can I ask ano...another favor?"</p><p>She nodded and Clarke held the scissors out to her. "Cut it off."</p><p>The other girls mouth pulled up on one side as she took them. "You sure? Wouldn't want to make big brother here pass out."</p><p>As the blades clipped together the damn black spots danced again, and Clarke took a swig of the whiskey.</p><p>A+ doctoring in her opinion. </p><p>Octavia once again helped her out of the bloody clothing, leaving her in a once-white sports bra. Though it probably should have, her lack of attire didn't bother the blonde, seeing as one: she had a killer body (if she did say so herself) and two:  it wasn't any more revealing than her work-out attire.</p><p>"From the gore or the strip poker?" Clarke quipped halfheartedly.</p><p>That one won a chuckle, she had no idea how Octavia was laughing. <em>Obviously</em> she was hilarious, but if a stranger woke her up and started stripping and getting blood all over her kitchen, Clarke would <em>not</em> be laughing.</p><p>The conversation died quickly though as she poured the whiskey on her stomach, taking deep breaths and reopening that fucking gash in her lip. Again.</p><p>Her day was going about as terrible as possible. <em>Brush your teeth. Now, boom, orange juice. That's life.</em></p><p>"Can you run the string through? I'll do the rest." Clarke held out the needle and thread.</p><p>Octavia did as she asked but was hesitant to hand it over. "Yourself? Are you serious?"</p><p>That almost made her laugh out loud, this wasn't the first and most defiantly <em>not</em> the last time she'd had to sew herself up.</p><p>This was in a good situation, with cover and medical supplies instead of dental floss or some shit. "Deadly."</p><p>"Brave princess, huh?" Clarke couldn't tell if it was respect or taunting in his voice so she went with a neutral response.</p><p>"Depends on...on who you ask."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>First, thank you to everyone who left comments &amp; kudos, they don't go unappreciated.</p><p>Second...I don't know. Enjoy yourself???</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>After two more long swigs of whiskey, she began to sew herself up, careful to avoid the handful of bruises. Even for Clarke it was hard to ignore the nervous fidgeting of Octavia and keep the pain from her features.</p><p>"Just say what you wanna say already." She ground out.</p><p>"Will you...will you be alright?"</p><p>Clarke didn't have to look up to know the girl-- well, woman from the look of her-- was concerned. Something she didn't see often in this line of work.</p><p>"Yeah, would you believe me if I told you it's not that bad?" The moment the words left her mouth Clarke knew she'd screwed up. These cul-de-sac siblings were going to ask more questions and she'd have to stay longer.</p><p>
  <em>Yay.</em>
</p><p>Bellamy ran a hand through his hair, and she'd be lying if she said his bed-head didn't look hot. "Is this a normal Sunday for you?"</p><p>Part of her wanted to be a smartass and tell him that it was <em>technically</em> Monday but decided against it, her life was in their hands and it probably wasn't the time...Look, it's hard being civil, okay? "No. The assassins usually try to kill me on Sundays, the others usually wait at least until Wednesday."</p><p>"Is that sarcasm?"</p><p>Clarke just gave a <em>very</em> small but indifferent shrug, let him chew on that.</p><p>She finished stitching herself up, the gash only like an inch wide, and leaned back in the chair, completely drained.</p><p>She almost smiled at her own joke until she remembered Wallace and had to hold back a grimace. Suddenly she sat up again quickly as cold--and honestly kind of sticky--metal dug into her back. Cursing, Clarke pulled it out with her left hand, careful not to pull on the stitches, and set it on the table.</p><p>Bellamy tensed up again. Shit, it's not like she was going to shoot them. Didn't they go over this already? His eyes kept flickering back and forth between the gun and Clarke, assessing. The blood covering the barrel <em>probably</em> wasn't helping.</p><p>The room stayed silent, Clarke's labored--and fucking painful--breaths the only indication they weren't in a wax museum. Octavia shot up from her seat and ran up the stairs, leaving Clarke with Mr. Grumpy-pants.</p><p>She tilted her head slightly, looking him over. From his stance it was easy to tell he wasn't in law enforcement or the military which was a pro and a con. But he obviously wasn't some string bean, Bellamy could probably hold his own in a fight. <strike>Well, maybe not too many of <em>her</em> fights but still.</strike> Who knows what training or whatever he had on his own time.</p><p>"So," She drawled, giving him another onceover <strike>that was totally professional</strike>.</p><p>He crossed his arms and his lips formed a hard line. "So. Are there people after you? Did they--<em>can</em> they follow you here?"</p><p>Clarke shrugged her left shoulder again, at this point giving the silent treatment to any and every part of the right side of her body. "Why do assume there's people after me? Who said I wasn't mugged or something?"</p><p>Bellamy did nothing but look pointedly between her pistol and her stomach. Fair enough.</p><p>She fought the urge to roll her eyes, out of all the people Wells could have sold the house to, it had to be people with common sense. <em>Typical.</em></p><p>"There are always people after me, but no, I don't think so. Not right now. I lost them a few miles from here, closer to the docks."</p><p>"How did you get that far in one piece?"</p><p>She cringed, almost feeling bad for the poor guy that'd have to explain the blood all over the seats tomorrow morning. "Cab."</p><p>He gave a deep chuckle, the first crack of emotion that wasn't based on concern in one form or another that Clarke had seen. "What, no armored batmobile? How the hell did they not just take you to a hospital?"</p><p>"I did what I could, you know, while I was also busy trying not to bleed to death. Distraction. You're limping because a heel broke, you're swaying because you...you had to much to drink, you're holding your side because the mosh pit got out of hand. Etcetera, etcetera."</p><p>Bellamy opened his mouth but Octavia barreled down the stairs with something in her hand. She sat back down, holding a button up long-sleeve. "Though you could use it."</p><p>Clarke gave her a genuine smile and soon she was cotton black shirt that smelled like pine. It was a little tight but better than nothing, it was freezing in this house. Though she couldn't tell if it was 'cause she'd lost too much blood or Bellamy was one of those weirdos that kept the thermostat at, like, 60 degrees.</p><p>"Thank you. Thank you both, for everything." She put as much sincerity as possible in her words, they <em>had</em> saved her ass. Clarke ran a hand up and down her thigh, getting <em>more</em> blood on her clothes and leaned back in her wooden chair again. "And I'm a woman of my word, you deserve answers."</p><p>Bellamy wasted no time with the interrogation. "Who fucking stabbed you?"</p><p>"Nice sugar coating. Let's just say...the bad guys." <em>Jesus Christ</em>, she was terrible.</p><p>If she had said that around Murphy, she'd never hear the end of it. <em>Bad guys?</em> Seriously? For a second her mind wandered, wondering if they were okay, if they had left like she had told them.</p><p>No. They were fine. He promised to make them leave.</p><p>Octavia raised a skeptical eyebrow, interrupting her internal monologue. "And...that makes you a good guy?"</p><p>"Last I heard." She paused, looking at the siblings faces. Neither of them looked satisfied with her answer. Surprise there. "Look, I don't want to get you two dragged into all this--"</p><p>Bellamy scoffed. "Well considering you came to <em>my</em> door and are currently using <em>my</em> kitchen as an operation room, I'd say that ship has sailed."</p><p>To late to turn back now. "Fine. This'll sound like some Tom Cruise bullshit but," Clarke gestured to her currently covered wound with one hand, "As you can see, I shit you not. The short version? My team...and I where trying to stop Cage Wallace from...doing some really fucked up stuff. Someone screwed up and things went wrong."</p><p>Okay, maybe that was a <em>minor </em>understatement.</p><p>At some point Bellamy had pulled up a chair next to his sister. With his elbows on his knees, he leaned forward. "Thanks for the details, Princess. Real specific."</p><p>Clarke opened her mouth to tell him to piss off because that was more than he should know in the firat place, but Octavia had other plans. "How did that lead you here? If you're the good guy, why not go to a hospital?"</p><p>For a moment she wished it was a Tom Cruise movie, because that would be the cue for something dramatic to happen, which would coincidentally let her skip the question. A S.W.A.T. team, maybe some helicopters. At the very least, a door should get kicked down, that was always fun.</p><p>And people healed in, like, a day. <em>Oh, did I get shot? Lol, sike.</em></p><p>One of these days Clarke was going to go to Hollywood and slap Bruce Geller. Defiantly on her bucket-list.</p><p>"Well, for one thing, I'm alone. Everyone else got out yesterday, hell, they're probably not even in Massachusetts anymore, so I had no one to cover for me. Two, like I said before, there are way too many cops working for Wallace here. I'm sure there aren't too many young blonde's getting stabbed in the middle of the night. Kinda conspicuous."</p><p>She had to admit some morphine would be greatly appreciated at the moment. But if all she could do was chug whiskey and pretend she hadn't been skewered, that'd have to do.</p><p>The other woman nodded slowly, digesting her words. Neither of them seemed to be freaking out, which was a plus. Clarke's eyes flashed to Bellamy, who seemed to be deep in thought. Deep thought was never good for a spy.</p><p>At all.</p><p>"So...hospitals weren't an option, I get that part. But why come here?" Octavia asked, dark eyes gleaming with curiosity. Apparently being nosey was genetic.</p><p>"Ah...An old friend of mine lived here, I didn't really have anywhere else to go." She still didn't understand how she hadn't known Wells had moved. If it had been years like Bellamy had said, they were <em>really</em> out of touch.</p><p>Apparently done with his internal Ted-Talk, Bellamy spoke up. "This friend being Jaha?</p><p>"No shit, Sherlock," She scoffed.</p><p>To be honest, manners were never really Clarke's thing. In fact, if she could avoid them, she would. <strike>In her opinion</strike> it was her mother's fault, forcing her into those damn events growing up. So now, almost by default, she avoided fake smiles and stilettos like the plague.</p><p>Which was also not so great for a spy. Every undercover gala or ball or whatever was like walking in lava. With sharks. Lots of sharks.</p><p>When her eyes found Bellamy's face again his expression was along the lines of <em>'Yeah, good one. Hilarious. Can't you see me laughing?'</em>. Murphy had given her the same face too many times to count, usually followed with an eye roll.</p><p>But his dark eyes were the dead give away, they were annoyed...but, under it all, amused. So Mr. Freckles had a sense of humor after all.</p><p>Point Griffin.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So yeah. </p><p>I know that in other action/spy fics Murphy is usually with Bellamy or on the antagonists side but I'm a sucker for Murphy &amp; Clarke bromance so...</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Surprise, surprise, the joy only lasted a heartbeat, reality quickly pulling her mood somewhere between '<em>screw everything</em>' and '<em>just blow everything up</em>'. Clarke glanced at the microwave, the green digits reading 3:02 A.M. Had she really been there that long?</p><p>The guilt came next, she had just put these people in danger, these twenty-something siblings were still in their god damn pajamas. "Look, I ah--appreciate everything you've done for me, really. But I-I should go. This--"</p><p>"Clarke," It sounded weird to hear Bellamy say her name, most people didn't. Usually settling for Griffin or some nickname. To be fair she hadn't told him anything else, but still.</p><p>"Where are you going to go? You were--you <em>are</em> a minute away from bleeding out and you--"</p><p>"I'll...ah, I'll be fine. I've stayed too long as it is." Without giving them an opportunity to argue, Clarke stood up, leaning on the table more than she'd care to admit. Her stomach told her to sit the fuck back down but her brain knew it was selfish to stay, the longer she put off leaving, the more danger they'd be in.</p><p>Let the record show she lasted a solid five seconds before her knees gave out.</p><p>But she never reached the tile...because a pair of strong hands kept her from cracking her head open, one on her arm and the other on her left hip. Clarke would have said thanks if there was any air left in her lungs, but seeing as it was hard to keep her eyes open, she stayed silent.</p><p>She didn't even have the energy to argue, which was a feat in itself. After all, the damage was already done and if Wallace caught up with her Clarke couldn't just leave Octavia and Bellamy defenseless. An impaled Clarke Griffin was better than no Clarke Griffin. <strike>Probably</strike>.</p><p>At least that's what she'd tell herself in the morning when she'd undoubtedly start regretting it.</p><p>"You can have my room." Bellamy grumbled, still holding her up.</p><p>"Thanks but, ah...but no thanks. I don't...I don't think going up stairs is a good idea." Unless they had done one hell of a renovation recently, this house didn't have any downstairs bedrooms. She had barely made it past the front porch, there was no chance in hell the second story was an option.</p><p>Clarke would <em>not</em> be carried. Under any circumstances. Period. Full stop.</p><p>"Well you're not leaving and you're not sleeping on the floor."</p><p>"Says who?"</p><p>"Says the person keeping you vertical." He deadpanned, loosening his grip slightly to emphasize his point. Prick.</p><p>"You ever heard of a fucking couch?" Clarke snapped back, her words slurred.</p><p>He started to protest but Octavia shot him a look. "Stop being such a mother hen, if Clarke can survived getting stabbed I don't think a couch is the end of the world."</p><p>They had a silent argument, eyes flicking from each other to her and back again. <em>Don't mind me, I'm just about to pass out on your kitchen floor.</em></p><p>Clarke felt the haze coming back and barely noticed Bellamy had started to walk her over to the front room, if only because the pain in her side demanded to be felt. Every. Fucking. Second.</p><p>They hadn't been walking for more than a few moments when she decided that was a few seconds too long so Clarke tried to focus on something else. Breathe in. Breathe out. In. Out.</p><p>The only light in the house was from the kitchen and soon the dark room started to blend in with the dark behind her eyes. Octavia ran to the back of the couch and did something or another, Clarke didn't care enough to look.</p><p>Bellamy helped her sit down, the pain finally lost to the static in her head, and she leaned back. Well, more like fell or flopped, but either way, the second her eyes closed, Clarke let unconsciousness take her.</p><hr/><p>Clarke woke up to the sound of a door opening, keys jingling. She opened one eye slightly and after a second she focused enough to see it was the front door, an unholy amount of light flashing through.</p><p>Wells' door. Bellamy's door. The door she left blood on last night. The door that currently didn't have blood on it?</p><p>Shit. Shitshitshitshit.</p><p>She was still at Wells' house, still sore, still stabbed, still fucking tired. Probably still being hunted.</p><p>While this all processed Clarke watched two guys walk through the front door. One was tall, dark, and built like a lumberjack <strike>on steroids</strike> with tattoos peaking out of his shirt. The other was shorter but still of a heavy build, his skin tone a little darker than the other guy. To top it off they were carrying a box of what looked suspiciously like donuts and a carrier of coffee.</p><p>Huh.</p><p>This day just kept getting better. Apparently the cosmos seemed to think getting stabbed wasn't enough, <em>oh no</em>, not for Clarke Griffin. She'd have to get stabbed <em>and</em> get caught, all in a ten hour span.</p><p>Life should come with one of those yellow warning labels, something so long the lines of CAUTION: When mixed with hope and/or love, can cause side effects such as: pain, suffering, severe blood loss, torture, heartbreak, loneliness, depression, anxiety, loss of purpose, and sometimes death.</p><p>She should go on Shark Tank or something.</p><p>From their position at the door, Clarke wasn't in their immediate line of sight but would be soon enough. Keeping her eyes half-closed, she started to inch her hand down to her boot where her knife was hopefully still stashed.</p><p>"Get your ass up, Blake! Both of you! Coffee waits for no man!...Or woman!" The smaller guy yelled and took off his beanie. Blake? Unless they have Siamese twins hidden upstairs, it was probably Bellamy and Octavia's last name.</p><p>Clarke had to keep from cursing out loud, there was no way she'd be able to reach far enough to get her knife on this stupid couch and not screw up her already hazardous stitches. She was fucked. Now there was <em>not only</em> the Blakes(?) to worry about but whoever the hell these guys were.</p><p>A second later Bellamy practically vaulted down the stairs, in a different shirt than before, Clarke noticed. Made sense, no doubt she'd gotten blood all over the other one. He looked at the two new arrivals with wide eyes and flashed a glance in Clarke's direction, probably having the same thoughts as her.</p><p>"Oh--uh, Miller, what ah, what are you guys doing here?"</p><p>The beanie guy--Miller--rolled his eyes and glanced at his watch. "It's Monday you idiot. We have to open in like an hour."</p><p>"Right, well...um I don't think I'm going to make it in today."</p><p>The taller guy snorted and turned to set the boxes--that smelled fucking delicious by the way--down on a table next to the door <em>aaaand</em> made eye contact with Clarke. Well that went downhill quickly.</p><p>Bellamy caught the interaction and moved towards him, one hand out. "Look it's not--"</p><p>"Who is that, Bellamy." The tatted dude asked, his voice surprising soft. Well, not like 'oh look it's a marshmallow' soft, more like...he didn't carry the same aggression as the other two. </p><p>"Lincoln, it's, ah she's no one, just--look it's complicated okay?" He sucked at this. And, <em>no one</em>? What kind of bullshit title is that? He couldn't even muster up a 'She's an old friend' or something?</p><p>Miller took a few steps forward and peered around Lincoln, now all three men were staring at her. Clarke could see the gears turning in the two strangers heads as they decided she wasn't just a hook up on the couch. Her appearance probably didn't do wonders for the eyes.</p><p>The room stayed silent for a second, everyone looking back and forth from person to person. It felt like some weird reenactment of that scene in the Pirates of the Caribbean or the Office where everyone held up guns and stared at eachother.</p><p>It was less cool without guns though.</p><p>Octavia, came down the stairs in another whirlwind--<em>did they ever just walk?</em>--and stopped dead in her tracks.</p><p>At this point everyone was wearing an expression that can only be described as '<em>Well, shit</em>'. Clarke moved to sit up, biting her lip for the seven thousandth time today. Because, in case you were wondering, sleeping flat on a couch did <em>not</em> do wonders for an already sore body. And, dear god, her hair was seconds away from just getting cut off if it flopped to the side one more fucking time.</p><p>With a glance at her dad's watch, Clarke internally cursed again. 8:47 A.M. She'd been there six-something hours. They were so majorly screwed.</p><p>Octavia jogged the few yards between them and helped pull her up into a semi-comfortable position. Clarke muttered a thanks and leaned her head back on the couch. Breathe in. Breathe out.</p><p>"Top of the morning to ya, boys." Clarke said in her best Boston accent, which was a 8.5/10 at best, while giving them a two-finger salute.</p><p>Miller ran a hand down his face and rocked on his heals before looking at Bellamy. "Please tell me that's not blood, dude. Tell me the stranger on your couch doesn't have blood all over her."</p><p>Well, <em>all over</em> is a strong term. It was only on her pants and hands...and probably on her face. Clarke didn't care enough to look at her shoes because that would require bending and bending was a <em>big</em> no-no at the moment.</p><p>At least Octavia had given her a new shirt, so there was one article of clothing she could say with certainty, didn't have her blood on it. Things were looking up.</p><p>The older Blake scratched the back of his head, looking at Clarke but not meeting her eyes. "It's not all over her."</p><p>Great minds think alike.</p><p>"How very candor of you. Care to explain?" Miller ground out.</p><p>"No need. I needed help and I got it. So I'll be going." Clarke stood up, albeit slower than usual, and held back a groan.</p><p>You know how people always clutch their injury in movies or whatever? Hate to burst your bubble but unless it's to literally hold your self together, it's not worth it. If you have a sensitive, healing, wound, you don't want to fucking squeeze it.</p><p>Octavia was in front of her in a flash, one hand on her shoulder. "You can't be serious. You're still hurt--"</p><p>"I'll be hurt for a long time, Octavia, and I really shouldn't be here. It won't end well."</p><p>Lincoln moved forward almost imperceptibly in the dark haired girls direction and Clarke took him in for the first time in depth. He was easily 6'1 or 6'2, towering over her at 5'5--well, 5'7 if you were talking to Murphy. He looked like one of those crazy infomercial body builder guys that only ate, like, raw eggs and protein powder.</p><p>How did those guys survive without pizza?</p><p>Both observations lead to her guess that he must have been in some form of military or office. It was how he carried himself that really gave him away. That and the eyes...yhey were gentle and calm but underneath was the haunting look that told her he's seen things, done things. Clarke knew because she saw it flicker behind her own blue ones everyday.</p><p>Nonetheless he could be a threat. Even if it wasn't a direct physical issue, it wasn't crazy to assume he'd report her. If this was how the day was going to go, Clarke wanted to go back to sleep.</p><p>Hoping she hadn't been staring to long, she glanced at Octavia who was still hovering In front of her. Clarke noticed something she'd missed last night--this morning but what the hell--whether it was because of the half-conscious state or something had shifted in the other girl, she didn't know. Her expression was a stark contrast to Lincoln's, fierce where he was gentle, wild where he was calm.</p><p>But either way, Clarke didn't miss his inching forwards. She nodded towards the tallest newcomer. "You're hitting that aren't you."</p><p>Her bluntness had apparently taken Octavia by surprise but a sly smile creeped up her face nonetheless. "He's a lucky man."</p><p>Clarke could almost taste the testosterone in the room. She'd hit a nerve.</p><p>Miller shifted on his feet and, come to think of it, she wouldn't be surprised if he was a cop or something. Because <em>that's</em> what she really needed right now.</p><p>He did seem to be the least affected by the interaction and 'recovered' first. "Bellamy, what the actual fucking hell. Why is their a random, bloody, beat up, did I mention <em>bloody</em>, woman in your living room? Did you call this in?"</p><p class="">"Well, aren't you the flatterer." Clarke mumbled, pushing Octavia's hand off her shoulder. "And like I said, I'm going to leave so you can all forget all about me. No calls necessary."</p><p>She didn't get more than a few steps before the other Blake made his way in front of her. These people had some serious boundary issues.</p><p>"You need to stop saying you're leaving because your not. Not in yo--"</p><p>"If you say 'your condition' so help me, I will kick your ass." Okay, so <em>maybe</em> she got that from a Supernatural episode, but it was a good line. Would have been better if Bellamy had taken it seriously.</p><p>"Wait. How seriously is she hurt?" Lincoln asked, his voice kind in sea of bitter words.</p><p>Either way, Clarke snapped her head in his direction, which was a bad idea. The room shouldn't be fuzzy. "Was it the blood that gave it away?"</p><p>"Look, I don't know who you are, but we should take you to the hospital."</p><p>Again with the hospitals! Why had she found freaking decent people. "Really, no need." She looked back at Bellamy, "You just had to have military buff and a badge as friends. Of all the people to come today, them."</p><p>Not waiting for him to respond, Clarke walked to the kitchen, everyone currently blocking her from the front door. To her surprise, there wasn't any bloody...everything like she'd left it. They must have cleaned it, just like the front door.</p><p>Her leather jacket was still hanging on the back of a chair though, newly-dried blood covering the front. They were lucky it was there because if they had gotten rid of it, she <strike>might</strike> would have gone full Slasher on them.</p><p>Between that and her watch, they were her most prized possessions. Not even Murphy or Jasper tried to touch them. And they didn't have boundaries. </p><p>Murphy had tried to mess with the can pop tops on the back once a few years back and she had <strike>broken</strike> come close to breaking his arm. It didn't stop them from trashing anything and everything else she owned but it was something.</p><p>Either way her gun wasn't there. Where the hell was her gun. Fuckity fuck fuck.</p><p>Turning, she stalked back into the other room, jacket slung over an arm. "Where is it. I need it and if someone finds it here, you're screwed."</p><p>They had all apparently been whisper-arguing while she was gone because the four adults all abruptly stopped talking and broke apart. Something shifted in the room, the way the two newcomers were looking at her. Calculating.</p><p>"What did you tell them." Her voice was hard and cold, it was supposed to be. Clarke shouldn't have said what she did last night but they were saving her life and there wasn't really an option.</p><p>Octavia put up her hands in defense and took a few steps closer. "The truth."</p><p>"That wasn't your truth to tell!" She ground out. Why must absolutely everything go to shit.</p><p>"I know, but they're family and you can trust them as much as Bell and I. They're not going to say anything. I can swear that on my life. You need our help, whether you want it or not."</p><p>Clarke pursed her lips. Kane was going to kill her if she didn't get killed. Now, not only were four people involved but two of them were fucking government. Well, <em>technicality</em> she was government but unless these guys were somebody high tier, they would only cause problems.</p><p>There were too many cusses going through her head to even distinguish. Breathe in. Breathe out.</p><p>"First of all, the only evidence that I can trust <em>you</em>, let alone them, is that I'm not dead yet. And second, none of this changes the fact that I need to get the hell out of dodge."</p><p>"I'm not giving you your gun, Clarke." Bellamy breathed, he was obviously exhausted but his tone was firm.</p><p>He couldn't be serious. They had met a few hours ago, by accident, while she was dying. But she wasn't a toddler begging for her favorite toy. She's a fucking trained killer, trying to save lives, however cringy it sounded. But if they were going to be hardasses, two could play at that game.</p><p>Looking past Bellamy and Octavia, Clarke eyed Lincoln and Miller. "What are your full names and ranks."</p><p>The latter crossed his arms, "And why the hell would we tell you that."</p><p>"They apparently thought it was okay to tell you things they shouldn't have. I'm just want to make sure they didn't make a mistake. Fair?"</p><p>Lincoln nodded before Miller could argue further. "Lincoln Ash, First Sergeant in the Marine Corps."</p><p>He elbowed Miller who gave a huff of annoyance. He was annoyed? At her? For wanting to make sure her entire operation didn't go to shit? That more people didn't get killed?</p><p>"Nathan Miller, former Captain of the Boston Police Department."</p><p>Could be worse. Miller was just a cop, not FBI or CIA. CIA was always a pain in her ass, they never even said thank you. Lincoln on the other hand was <em>not only</em> a Marine, but held the third or fourth most important position available.</p><p>Not sure what to think, Clarke shot Bellamy another glare. "I need to borrow a phone."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So, once again you decided to keep reading, for that I'm very grateful.</p><p>I know it's been a while but finals week is next week and them I'm FREE of all that so I'm sure I'll be posting more frequently.</p><p>Anyway, don't be stupid, have fun, read until there's no fan fiction left.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I'm back, bitches!<br/>So...I fucking lied in my notes last chapter.<br/>Look, I'm disappointed. You're disappointed. I know. I wrote the first half of this chapter like a day after posting Chapter 3 and kinda...never finished it??? My writing schedule has gone to shit the past couple of months and I'm trying get back in the grove.<br/>If I take forever to do Chapter 5 feel free to yell at me.<br/>Hope it does my hella-long-break justice ;)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Bellamy gave her an odd look, head tilting slightly, "Why doesn't an...<em>agent </em>have a cell phone?"</p><p>There were about a hundred reasons Clarke didn't have one on her at the moment, but she settled for the most dramatic one. </p><p>Slapping her forehead, Clarke looked at him with wide eyes. "You're so right! I must have lost it somewhere. And I mean it's not like I was busy with anything last night, I should have stopped by a T-Mobile or something--"</p><p>"All right, shit, here." He handed one to her that came seemingly out of nowhere, practically spitting on it.</p><p>Miller and Mr. Lumberjack were looking her over, still seizing her up. Clarke turned slightly to Octavia, looking back at the men before settling on her. "How much of the stuff you were to <em>never </em>share with <em>anyone</em>, did you share with these two."</p><p>Octavia wasn't impressed. "What do you think?"</p><p>Everything then. Perfect. Juuust peachy. "What part of 'the cops work for the bad guy' made you think it was a good idea to tell the fucking <em>cop</em> anything!"</p><p>Miller rolled his eyes, his expression almost bored, "What do you think I'm going to do? Drag you down to the station?"</p><p>Ignoring him, Clarke raised an eyebrow at the Blakes, "Why did you tell them in the first place? You <em>really</em> didn't have to."</p><p>"Because they were worried," Lincoln answered, "As anyone should be in this situation."</p><p>She hated it when logic was logical on the other side of the argument.</p><p>"How are we supposed to know we can trust you?" Bellamy pointed out in a tone that made Clarke really want to deck him. Instead she just tightened her grip on the phone like an expensive stress ball. </p><p>She gave a disbelieving laugh, "This isn't about trust! You don't have to trust me and, although I have a particularly fantastic personality, you don't have to like me."</p><p>The message was clear from his expression. <em>He didn't.</em></p><p>Clarke turned semi-slowly back into the kitchen and tossed her jacket onto the table, trying her best not to drag her feet. Apparently she wasn't leaving this hellhole yet. It wasn't like she couldn't walk out the back door and get on with her life but it was better to call here and potentially get her gun back than leaving. And Bellamy knew it.</p><p>Clarke scoffed to herself. <em>Wait</em>. She'd had to resort to waiting for <em>her </em>firearm. </p><p>An hour. She'd give herself an hour before saying <em>"Fuck it."</em></p><p>With a sigh, Clarke typed the numbers into Bellamy's phone. Monty would probably kill her for using this phone instead of a burner but she wasn't exactly in the position to head to Walgreens anytime soon. </p><p>
  <em>"Hello?"</em>
</p><p>"Hey, Green Bean."</p><p>She could hear whoops in the background and held back a chuckle. Him and Raven had set up a wicked sound system for conference calls and reports back at <strike>home </strike>base.<em> "I told them you'd be fine. Harp said you got hurt, are you alright?"</em></p><p>"Uh, yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. I handled it."</p><p>
  <em>"Your fine or my fine? And by my fine, I mean no-bull fine." </em>
</p><p>"I'm not great, but I'm good. Really. Scouts honor." All in all, it wasn't that bad, but Monty would fuss and all that crap and they'd get nowhere. One time she'd dislocated her shoulder <strike>whilst being thrown into a wall</strike> and Clarke thought he was going to sit her down for a whole Ted Talk on self-preservation.</p><p>
  <em>"What--"</em>
</p><p>There was a shuffle and a few curse words thrown before the other end came through. <em>"And they call me a cockroach."</em></p><p>"Cause you are, Murphy. Look, I'm kind of in a rush. Is Raven there?"</p><p>There was a moment's silence. <em>"Yup. I don't know why you'd want that asshole but she's here."</em></p><p>Raven made a half-laugh, half-snort. <em>"Takes one to know one!"</em></p><p>"And Murph?"</p><p>
  <em>"Yeah?"</em>
</p><p>Clarke swallowed and focused on a suddenly very interesting blotch on her boot, despite knowing no one was around to she her anxiety. "Thanks. For keeping your promise." </p><p>
  <em>"What are friends for?"</em>
</p><p>Taking up his light tone, she scoffed mockingly, "Since when are we friends?"</p><p>"<em>You--"</em></p><p>Raven's voice cut him off, usually having to be the one to split them up,<em>"You called, Doc?"</em></p><p>Clarke walked back out of the kitchen and nodded, forgetting she was on the phone. Look, it had been a long day. "Mhm. Lincoln Ash, First Sergeant Marine and Nathan Miller, former Captain of the BPD."</p><p>The Latina hummed in response while she did her magic a hundred miles away. <em>"Damn. Tell me you're not still in Boston. You know how close--"</em></p><p>"I know, too close for comfort. There hasn't been a lot of comfort for me lately." She was barely a twenty minute drive from the pricks who had put her in this situation to begin with. It was a miracle no one had sought her out. Hopefully they didn't care enough about her to put much effort in it, after all, they'd be cleaning up the chaos of Jasper and Monty Inc. for a while.</p><p>
  <em>"Tell me about it. Okay, um, both check out. Ash is still active, did a couple tours, chose to stay and train greenies. Miller was only Captain for a year before suddenly retiring, doesn't say why he left. Personal reasons I guess."</em>
</p><p>So Lincoln was probably older than Clarke by at least a few years, Miller, if she had to guess, was around her age.</p><p>"Mkay. I need you to make some calls." It was the only was she could think of to guarantee the people currently refusing to make eye contact didn't fuck everything up. Peer pressure and blackmail.</p><p>Don't do drugs, kids.</p><p>
  <em>"Fucking Griffin! You didn't!"</em>
</p><p>She could hear Jasper collecting bets and pinched the bridge of her nose. Clarke looked at the Blakes pointedly. "Yeah. I needed help, one thing led to another. I wasn't involved."</p><p>
  <em>"Psh. Anyway, you know Indra, right? Kane's old buddy?"</em>
</p><p>"Mhm." She was badass. Indra looked like the seasoned warrior you would see in a movie; short haircut, scars, and scowl. The whole package.</p><p>
  <em>"Well she's First Sargent of the Marine Corps and she and Ash go way back. I think she was his mentor or something, so that one's in the bag. Miller on the other hand is a different situation. Jackson is his husband."</em>
</p><p>"Shit, really? As in Eric? As in my <em>mother</em>?" Clarke knew he had gotten married to some guy last year but had never heard to who. She looked at the husband in question, he had a wedding band on and seemed like Jackson's type. <strike><em>And I will pepper in the fact that I am gay</em></strike><em>.</em>Or was it Jackson-Miller now?</p><p>
  <em>"Yup. I don't know if you got lucky or seriously screwed this time, Doc. Either way, I'll probably just ask him to yell at Miller and if that doesn't work I'll go higher up the food chain."</em>
</p><p>"Okay, thanks. Next time I see him I'll have to say congrats."</p><p>
  <em>"And give one hell of an explanation. You know Kane is going to fucking strangle you...Well, hug you, then strangle you."</em>
</p><p>"I know, I know. I'm going to try to get back soon." </p><p>
  <em>"Fine. Don't get killed or we'll all take turns killing you. You won't even get a hug first."</em>
</p><p>The line went dead and Clarke handed Bellamy his phone back. <em>Holy shit</em> she needed to wash her hands. They were...grimey to say the least, dried brown-ish blood and...something crusted under her fingernails. </p><p>Bellamy didn't fail to notice it either apparently and wrinkled his nose. "The bathroom is just down the hall, second door on the left."</p><p>Did she know that already? Yeah. Did Bellamy need to know she knew? Hell no. But he was right all the same, Clarke felt icky. After all, it'd be rude to strangle someone with dirty hands.</p><p>Turning on her heels, Clarke walked down said hallway, but not before hearing two phones ring from the other room. Rae had great timing with that stuff. By the time she got back, the two stiffs would have enough sense to get the hell out of her way.</p><p>The first thing she noticed in the small room was that it had a lot of dark blue and white, and odd contrast to the nasty beige and cream Thelonious had insisted on keeping. The first thing she needed to do was get clean.</p><p>Much to her disgust, the soap was watermelon and cucumber. Gag. Clarke hated cucumbers to begin with, but with watermelon? Hell no.</p><p>What sicko thinks that would be a good combination?  </p><p>Ignoring her urge to roll her eyes at the <strike>devil's spawn</strike> inanimate bottle of soap, she started to lather her hands. It took a a few minutes, but Clarke was able to get her hands and forearms mostly un-bloodified. The rest of her was, well...</p><p>Her face wasn't as bad as it felt, there was a bruise on her jaw and another on her left temple. Surprisingly she'd only gotten a few notable cuts on her face; one down her cheek and the other above an eyebrow. The latter was from the same asshole that had harpooned her.</p><p>He was a dead man walking.</p><p>On that note, Clarke's jeans were starting to get stiff at the top where the important red stuff had soaked, her boots had seen better days. It wasn't that bad. Nothing was shredded except for the knees, dirty, but holding together.</p><p>Her jacket hat gotten a few rips but Niylah would fix it later. The only reason she felt okay with wearing it out for things like last night was knowing there was someone that could fix it.</p><p>That woman had the hands blessed by the heavens. For sewing and...extracurriculars. <strike>Cue sexy music.</strike></p><p>Pulling up the dark material of the borrowed shirt, Clarke looked down at her shitty ER work. It looked alright, no infection yet or anything. She let the shirt fall and a second later froze. She hadn't covered it last night.</p><p>Oh, come on!</p><p>What kind of amateur was she! You always fucking wrap it up, that was like rule number...whatever number came after closing the wound. Gritting her teeth, Clarke dug through the drawers and cabinets till she found a box of the huge gauze pads and some peroxide.</p><p>It hurt like a mother, but it only took a minute to dress her wound and give it an approving once-over in the mirror. She was about to turn and walk out when something else caught her eye.</p><p>Her hair had been a gold blonde once-upon-a-bath-ago but at this point more...well, not gold. Clarke took her bun out, which was a process to say the least with one hand, shook her hair out. Holy hell her hair hurt.</p><p>She watched as her reflection bit her lip--which, you guessed it, still hurt--eyes flashing across her figure. She made a snap decision, which wasn't very Clarke-y. </p><p>Clarke Griffin was a planner. A strategist. Which was one of many reasons why the last 24 hours had brought a 'healthy' young woman to the brink of insanity.</p><p>She propped her foot up on the toilet lid and got her knife from the sheath by her ankle. Shaking her hair out till it was split down the middle, Clarke grabbed a section of her hair and cut it off to just above her shoulders. No going back now.</p><p>When she was done, she watched her eyes look herself over. The thought made her head hurt.</p><p>Well...eh.</p><p>What one calls shitty straight edges, Clarke calls layering. At least it'd be one less description to be traced by. No longer was she in the long haired blonde category. She should have a party or something. </p><p>Either way Madi would be ecstatic, Clarke had no doubt in her mind there would be a conversation at least an hour long on the subject. </p><hr/><p>When she walked back out, a now semi-clean woman, her eyes bee-lined to the food. Ignoring the eight eyes following her, Clarke opened the box of donuts and took out a huge apple fritter. It took approximately .037 seconds for her to decide she needed coffee so she took one of those too.</p><p>If someone wanted to complain, that was their problem. They take her weapon, she takes their Starbucks. It sucks to suck sometimes.</p><p>The donut was a little sweet but did the job. Looking at Lincoln and Miller over her cup, Clarke raised an eyebrow. "We good?"</p><p>Lincoln nodded and crossed his arms. "I heard what I needed to. I trust Indra, Indra trusts Kane, Kane trusts you. So I can trust you."</p><p>One down three to go. She couldn't get a read on what side of the fence Bellamy or Octavia were on. Why must everything be so complicated. All she needed was her gun and Clarke would be out the door with her jacket before you could say 'Avocado'. Why avocado, you may ask? She likes avocados, it's as simple as that.</p><p>Miller on the other hand didn't look convinced. "You know Jackson? He was the Eric you were taking about on the phone?"</p><p>Clarke hummed into her fritter. "You have great taste. He's a good man."</p><p>"I know he is, why is he wrapped up in all this?"</p><p>"I don't know how it started but I've known him since I was a kid. Good friend of my mom. Patched me up a few times." Apparently next time she saw Jackson she'd have to say 'Congratulations on the wedding' Immediately followed by 'Sorry for the marriage counseling'.  "But either way, did your love bug tell you what you need to hear?"</p><p>He nodded but didn't look happy about it. "I'm not going to barricade the door or anything."</p><p>She was halfway there. Aaaand already past the finish line for her donut. Clarke grabbed another round-piece-of-heaven while looking pointedly at Octavia.</p><p>"You know, if four ranking officials tell you need to trust me and give me back my shit, I'm pretty sure you need to listen."</p><p>"I'm <em>pretty sure</em> none of them tell me what to do." Octavia shot back.</p><p>Feisty, eh? From the looks the her brother, boyfriend, and friend were giving her, it was a common occurrence.</p><p>"Look, I appreciate a strong willed woman as much as the next gal, but this is serious," Clarke looked from Octavia to all three men and back again, "Can get people hurt. Killed. So please, I need to go."</p><p>The dark haired girl crossed her arms and looked at Lincoln for a few seconds. The so-deeply-in-love-and-supportive-that-it-is-sickening look returned to his features and that's when Clarke knew she had this in the bag. While Lincoln had been silent most of the time, Clarke had a sinking suspicion that he was the type of guy that would follow Indra's heed. Any hesitation he might have was buried deep enough that she couldn't find a trace of it.</p><p>Miller cleared his throat and raised his eyebrows in a silent question at Bellamy, who's eyes were a not-so-mini inferno.</p><p>Clarke took an assertive step towards him, being as threatening as a short blond with a donut and coffee cup could be. "I don't care who you are or what you do or where you buy your produce. The second Amendment and the head of a military branch just told you to do something, so give me my goddamn gun and you'll never have to see me again."</p><p>There wasn't a doubt in her mind that Bellamy would have stood there glaring at her until the end of time had they been alone. But they weren't. </p><p>And one particular member of said company was the only one with common sense. And don't think it was a coincidence that this common-senser was the only other one with two X chromosomes.</p><p>So--you guessed it--it was Octavia who was putting the cool metal into Clarke's hand a minute later, not him.</p><p>A toothy grin spread across Clarke's face, one that Octavia returned with a sly smile. She probably had agreed just to piss the others off. The second Bellamy caught her eye, it dropped. Ooohhh yeah. She <em>so</em> wanted to pummel him. In the balls. </p><p>He had saved her hide? Yes. Was she grateful for that? Obviously.</p><p>You know what Clarke didn't appreciate? Every bitching second in his presence since she woke up. The level of asshole it took to over-ride a life dept is substantial. Anyone would be nice when a hot girl was hurt and fainting in their kitchen. Clarke didn't fit the bill anymore, now did she?</p><p>Based on the level stare he was giving her, he echoed the sentiment. Maybe Clarke should have been the bigger man and let it go, but seeing as she was both a woman and smaller than him, she felt no such obligation. </p><p>"Do you have a reason for that glare or is that just your resting bitch face?" Clarke drawled, tilting her head at so-sexy-it-wasn't-fair man.</p><p>"Well seeing as you keep pointing out how bad it is for you to be here," He said and Clarke could almost taste the passive aggressiveness in his tone, "I really just want you gone."</p><p>Oh. No. He. Did. <em>Not</em>. Wasn't he the one saying she shouldn't leave in her condition, like, twenty minutes ago? "If memory serves you hadn't dragged me inside, I would have been gone hours ago."</p><p>"Yeah, gone from the <em>land of the living</em>."</p><p>"Which wasn't your problem, last I checked." </p><p>Clarke had a feeling he would have been like, <em>"Next time I'll just go back to bed then"</em>  had she not focused back on his sister. "Thank you, Octavia. Really. For the shirt and the couch and being the brains in the family and...everything. Miller, I expect we'll be seeing more of each other."</p><p>He chuckled, scratching at his groomed beard, "I guess we will, huh?"</p><p>As if family dinners weren't awkward enough. <em>Oh hey, remember me? The crazy woman? Can you pass the peas?</em></p><p>With a small nod to Lincoln, Clarke walked <em>back </em>to the kitchen for what she hoped was the last time. A second later the sound of Bellamy moving to follow her reached her ears. What now.</p><p>"I like your hair. You should keep it short." </p><p>The comment stopped her in her tracks. This guy needed to get his emotions in order. How do you get from <em>'Maybe I should have left you to die'</em> to <em>'Nice haircut' </em>? And they say women are confusing.</p><p>Having been close with both in relationships and friendships, Clarke could say with absolute certainty that was bullshit.</p><p>She took a few more steps forward before whipping around again, "Bellamy?"</p><p>"Yeah?"</p><p>"Get new soap in the guest bathroom, no one likes cucumber-watermelon. Try strawberry."</p><p>With a final finger-gun, she turned and walked towards the back door, snatching her jacket. Sliding the back door open, Clarke Griffin swore to forget the whole experience. Forget the girl with a spirit of wildfire. Forget Bellamy Blake and his obnoxiously gorgeous freckles. </p><p>Those freckles would be the death of her.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Sorry if the conversation on the phone was weird. It was a little weird for for me to write dialogue without one of the people actually being in the scene so I hope it turned out alright. ;) I really need to figure it out.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So I finally did it, sorry for the wait but if you keep lowering your standards my "schedule" will eventually work. </p><p>The only viable excuse I have is that I wrote half of this chapter then scrapped it and spent forever trying to figure out where to go with it.<br/>Like I said last time, comments are the only thing that actually remind me I need to produce something in a timely manner so shout out to those of you who kept making me remember what I was doing.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You know, some people like to express themselves in abstract ways. Like poems or baking or film or...yoga and whatever.</p><p>Clarke Griffin has <strike>four</strike> three.</p><p>1. John Mulaney quotes</p><p>2. Cursing like a fucking sailor</p><p>3. Violence</p><p>
  <strike>4. Painting</strike>
</p><p>Depending on the time of day and the amount of danger her life is in, she can go up and down the scale. That last one doesn't usually help on the bad days but hey, everyone has to have a hobby. Currently, John was her favorable choice, with <em>"I am very small. And I have no money. So you can imagine the kind of stress that I am under."</em> And <em>"You're all going to die! Street Smarts!"</em> Coming in at the lead.</p><p>Mainly do to with the fact that she was not only <strike>small</strike> petite, but probably about to die and currently without any money. It was becoming a bad habit of hers. The cab fare last night had used all of her cash, leaving her pockets with a whopping $0.69. <strike>She didn't have enough to buy chicken nuggets</strike>.</p><p>Which, as you might have guessed, is no where near enough to get from Boston, Massachusetts to Buffalo, New York. As far as she could see, Clarke had two viable options. One really shitty option and one less-legal-but-a-lot-easier option.</p><p>On the one hand she could just try to get as far as she could on foot and leave it to tomorrow-Clarke to figure it out. But current-Clarke was well aware that without a card or her phone, pickpoketing was her only real option. And while that would be pretty easy, what would she do with it?</p><p>The subway would be too public and who knows how many cabs it would take to get there. Add to that having to find a cabbie who wouldn't rat her out to the wrong people and switching out rides often enough avoid the risk to be traced and finding enough money for it all...</p><p>Long story short, Clarke choose the other hand. She could just steal a car.</p><p>Is stealing bad? No shit. Should Clarke steal? Debatable. Did she need to steal? <strike>Debatable </strike>Obviously. Should she be operating any vehicle when, like, a quarter of her blood is MIA? No.</p><p>Ignoring her moral integrity--which she felt she should get a pass for, considering she had been recently <em>stabbed</em>--it was a great plan. </p><p>By 10:30, she was on her way across Massachusetts in what Clarke had deemed an inconspicuous pick-up. Don't worry, she wrote down the plate number and'll pay them back <em>eventually</em>. It was a little over seven hours to drive to Buffalo so, if things went well, she'd be back before dinner. But the odds weren't exactly in her favor.</p><p>The optimism started to dwindle about an hour later when an SUV a few cars behind her followed her onto <em>another </em>on-ramp. Was it possible they were just headed to New York too? Yeah. But not fucking likely by the looks of it.</p><p>It was way too "inconspicuous" with the pristine black paint and dark tinting. You know how some undercover cop cars are just so obviously cop cars? It's like that. Fucking amateurs.</p><p>Either way, Clarke stopped at the next gas station, knowing fully well she couldn't buy anything, tediously put on her jacket--10/10 would not recommend doing, but it was cold--and walked into the little shop. Lucky for her Octavia's shirt was on the longer side, for Clarke at least, and after some maneuvering it covered most of the flaking blood on her jeans.</p><p>There was a few people roaming the aisles and one guy at the register. After a minute of aimlessly flipping through magazines and <em>super duper </em>l<span class="u">egally</span> putting some snacks in her pockets, she watched the suburban pull up.</p><p>And, in the must un-original way possible, too guys--<em>of fucking course there wasn't a chick--</em>walked in like they owned the place. Clarke <em>reeeeeeally</em> didn't want to fight them today. Her side was obviously still fucked up and she wasn't in the mood, not after last night.</p><p>Last night. Talk about curve balls.</p><hr/><p>
  <em>"Yo, Rapunzel."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Clarke mentally <strike>slapped</strike> sucker punched herself as she looked up, Murphy's shit-eating grin plastered on his face. It was his new thing to just randomly call out names of blondes and see if she responded. She usually did. Earlier at lunch it was Bubbles, yesterday it was Brittany Spears, the day before that was Margot Robbie. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Pft, as if Clarke would ever have an Australian accent.</em>
</p><p><em>"Fuck you." She said, trying and failing to sound sincere. Clarke hated loving him sometimes. More than sometimes. Because he was an absolute </em>asshole.</p><p>
  <em>"I'm going to have to swipe left, babe." Prick.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"You two have issues." Harper muttered from beside Murphy, looking between them. Oh, if only she knew. They had done some pretty fucked up things just to see who could be the most passive aggressive. Among her favorites were bleach, firecrackers, air-horns, soup--you don't want to know--and nail clippers. </em>
</p><p><em>Clarke looked to the front of the rover, Raven with the pedal to the metal as usual--she'd actually tried to blame it on her leg once, to no avail seeing as it wasn't her pedal foot--and Jasper with earbuds in loud enough for her to hear. She grabbed a hair tie from her bag and shot it at the back of his head. Being the three time winning Middle School Talent Show star that she was, Clarke hit him right at the base of his skull. Like a </em>boss<em>.</em></p><p>
  <em>He whipped his head around, zeroing in on Clarke, who raised an eyebrow, "No way. If your going to ride shotgun you can't just disappear."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Sticking his tongue out at her, Jasper plugged his music into the stereo, some song about a dying river or whatever came on. Harper had to actually hold Murphy back from crawling up there and throwing his phone out the window.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Clarke wasn't far behind him. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>"What?" Jasper whined, "We still have like two hours until we get there."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Leaning forward, Murphy said in a loud whisper, "If you don't fix that shit in the next five seconds I'm going to tell Kane about that time in Mon--"</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Alright, alright! Jesus!"</em>
</p><p>
  <em>A song about kissing with a upbeat guitar in the background came on, to which Harper, Raven, and Murphy started to sing along too. Children. She worked with children, worse than children actually, delinquents. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Immature delinquents.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Ignoring whatever probably-important thing Harper was talking about, Clarke turned back to the knife in her lap, rubbed off a smudge, and tucked it under the cusp of her dark jeans. She prayed to whatever or whoever lived Upstairs her clothes didn't get too ruined. She had accomplished the perfect mix between hot, comfortable, and practical. </em>
</p><p><em>According to Kane it wasn't going to be a very hand-to-hand night. With her luck, that meant she'd be playing patty-cake with Emerson's face sooner than later. </em> <em>Tonight was the night. They were going to kick Wallace's ass before he killed anyone else for his "science" projects. </em><em>She hated Wallace almost as much as she hated Delores Umbridge. Which in Clarke's book, said a lot. This was important, like big time. As much as she wanted to believe it'd be a quick and easy bang-pow kind of night, it never worked out like that<strike> in the Mission Impossible movies</strike>.</em></p><p>
  <em>When the song ended a few minutes later, Clarke <strike>beckoned Murphy over</strike> told Murphy to sit his ass down in the seat next to her. As much as they loved fuckery,  seriousness was part of the job sometimes. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Now was one of those times.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>As soon as the next song came on, Clarke cut to the chase. "Murph, we both know this is different. Wallace is...this stuff has been going on for years and years, unprohiboted."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Clarke, this--"</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Promise me the second things go to shit--if things go to shit, you'll all get out of there. You'll make them leave."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Dramatic much?" Murphy rubbed his nose and avoided the conversation for another solid minute before turning back to Clarke. "Okay, I promise. But you have to too, you're not always the one left behind in some dramatic escapade. What if I want to sacrifice myself instead?"</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"You'll have to wait your turn, Cockroach. No one can kill you anyway." She paused to watch their friends--their family--sing off tune together like dying walruses. "How about a pinkie promise? The most sacred vow known to man."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Clarke held out her pinky and wiggled it at him, in sync with some eyebrow wiggling, mind you, until he wrapped his own around it.</em>
</p><hr/><p>Spinning another rack of cheap sunglasses around aimlessly, Clarke waited until they roamed behind a shelf and she walked up to the clerk. Wringing her hands together a few times with a glance to the door for good measure, she looked at the guy across the counter.</p><p>"Excuse me but, um, those guys have been--have been following me since I left my apartment and my phone died," Clarke rubbed her hands on her pant legs a few times, "And I don't know what to. Could I, like, maybe go out the back door or something? I can't--"</p><p>The guy, <em>Hugh</em>, according to his name tag, not-so-subtly shot a glance at the clearly intimidating men in question, then her face. Her fucked up face. Whatever theory he had formed in his head was enough for him to buy it. "Of course, of course. Do you want me to call the police?"</p><p>Great<em>. Another</em> person wanting to call law enforcement. </p><p>Despite herself, <em>"Fuck da Po-lice!"</em> echoed in her head and Clarke had to work on keeping a straight face. Deep breaths. Calling the cops there, to the place where her currently stolen truck was parked, would be <em>no bueno</em>. "N-no thank you. That isn't necessary."</p><p>"You sure?"</p><p>She just gave a small nod and after another look over Clarke's shoulder, he pointed down the right hall.</p><p><em>Damn</em> she was good.</p><p>Following Hugh's instructions, Clarke soon found herself in the back employee parking lot where three cars were currently parked. The blue car closest to her had "HUJAKMN" on it's license plate so, out of courtesy, she decided to take the Prius next to it. She wasn't a bitch <em>all</em> the time.</p><p>It wasn't until she had bent down to fold into the car that she remembered why she had gotten a truck last time. Bending down into a car was a <em>lot </em>worse than stepping up into a truck, which wasn't great either. Her stomach was like a constant middle finger from the universe.</p><p>Clarke was <strike>twenty nine percent</strike> sure Jessica Tarlem from fifth grade had made a voodoo doll for her after losing the Talent Show and was currently murdering it. It was the only viable resin as to why the day had gone the way it did.</p><p>As soon as she crossed the border, some tension eased out of her shoulders. And, though she would never admit it, Clarke may or may not have given Massachusetts the bird herself as soon as she passed the "Welcome to New York" sign. If Boston had a Yelp page, it'd get a solid one star,<em> if that</em>. She lost one of her favorite shirts, had to deal with the whole Lincoln and Miller situation, and got stuck in the same state as Wallace.</p><p>Oh, and almost got <em>disemboweled</em>. All in all, a shitty trip.</p><p>It was past 5:30 PM by the time Clarke got to Buffalo, having only almost fallen asleep--<em>almost </em>being the key word--<strike>three </strike>two times on the way. Her only salvation was finding a $20 in the console of the Prius before swapping for another truck--Chevy this time, <em>ugh</em>--which she used unabashedly to buy a sandwich, water, and a few bags of peanut M&amp;Ms. </p><p>She ditched the truck a few blocks away in some brewery parking lot, craving some serious deep dish pizza after (kinda) living the past twenty-four hours of her life with significantly less <strike>blood </strike>food than she deserved. Shaking out her arms and new amazing bob, Clarke started to walk south towards Broadway (and yes, non-New Yorkers and all on all uncultured people, Broadway isn't just a clump of theaters in New York City. It's a fucking <em>road</em>). </p><p>It was easily a ten minute walk to their warehouse, but she made it in one piece, even if by the end she was seriously favoring her left leg. There was a total of six people that gave her odd looks but most didn't even blink an eye at her appearance, which was good for her but also said a lot about Buffalo culture. </p><p>
  <em>Thanks for the concern.</em>
</p><p>As soon as she turned the corner, Clarke knew they'd see her any second, having stalked their cameras many hours herself. The building dwarfed over her, a balanced rusty-sheek-but-like-in-an-aesthetic-y-way. And no, she didn't live on the floor of some old steel factory. She lived in an apartment <em>above </em>a huge old steel factory, <em>thank you very much. </em></p><p>It's honestly fucking awesome.</p><p>The inside was casual enough that Jasper still brought his moonshine in, but formal enough that Kane still felt the need to pretend to yell at him for it. From the street you wouldn't be able to tell the difference but if you knew where to look there was an extra door leading upstairs. Stairs. Shit.</p><p>They had a small elevator, originally put in for Raven a long time ago when they hadn't known what to expect of her recovery, but it was on the other side of the building. Everything is pointlessly pointless sometimes, you know?</p><p>While trying to convince herself that it was no big deal, Clarke half-waddled to the supposedly-not-suspicious door like Tiny Tim. Swinging it open, she stepped inside the warm cocoon, glad to shake off the September chill. But before she could do more than take a step, she was ambushed. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I think I might have accidentally turned this one into more of a filler chapter but maybe that's just me b/c I, you know WROTE it.<br/>This was obviously the first chapter that isn't written at the Blakes and it was defiantly a little different to write without actual people for her to be talking to.<br/>I hope that to you I was able to keep the same writing style/feel to Clarke's character???</p><p>And in case it wasn't obvious there was indeed a flashback scene to the day before, which, IF y'all like, is how I'm thinking I'll unravel what happened with Wallace. </p><p>(In case you were wondering, yes, the Rover scene was influenced by 3x01)</p><p>And, if you're still reading, I can't believe people have wanted to read this OVER 2500 TIMES. Holy shit.<br/>To everyone who left kudos and bookmarked/subscribed to this work, y'all are amazing. Everyone who commented, I've said it before and I'll say it agian, you're my new favorite people, like, holy hell you make my day every time.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I, well--ah...um, you see-- *yeets this is at you* *starts banging my head on the wall*</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Ja-Jasper, I told you last...last time," Clarke breathed, "To wait...a fucking second."</p><p>Over the past three years, Clarke had built up a pretty hefty pain tolerance--at least as far as everyone else could tell, as long as her expression was chill, no one looked twice. It never really mattered that the voice in her head was swearing and screaming enough to curdle milk.</p><p>Something people forget about pain tolerance is that it doesn't just magically make it <em>not </em>hurt. It still really fucking hurts, she's just stopped caring as much. Like, getting hand sanitizer in paper cuts still feels like Satan put a hand grenade laced with kryptonite in her skin, but she can go on with her day. Unlike others *cough* <em>Jasper </em>*cough* who act like a bear bit his damn hand off.</p><p>But on some occasions like, oh, for example, someone<em> throwing themselves at her</em> and with a "hug" <strike>from hell</strike> hard enough that she stumbled back a step whilst <em>blood loss</em> and sleep deprivation were pounding through her veins, that tolerance weaned a bit. Which is how, in this hypothetical situation, there's a hundred percent chance it would end with Jasper laying on his back, Clarke leaning against a wall, and Murphy laughing his ass off. All of them desperately gasping for air. All for different reasons.</p><p>"My bad," Was Jasper's only response from the ground as he rubbed his back. Serves that fucking stoner of a man-child right.</p><p>Finally steadying her heartbeat, Clarke looked to Murphy under a curtain of now-short dirty hair. "The others?"</p><p>"Harper's out getting something for Kane, who's been brewing up a storm all day, FYI," He said, walking over to Clarke, "Raven and Monty are up doing some shit with A.L.I.E., still trying to sort through whatever footage they can salvage."</p><p>Footage from the warehouse. Great. Clarke lifted her eyebrows, "How the hell is that supposed to work?  I thought we couldn't get in before--"</p><p>"I don't know and I really don't want to. Ask the freaks yourself."</p><p>Surprise, surprise.</p><p>"Are you good for the stairs?" Jaz glanced to the other end of the building, past the stacks of pallets and crates then back to her, "I can go make sure the elevator--"</p><p>On the one hand she'd nearly passed out from the <em>three </em>steps on Bellamy's--<em>Wells' ?</em>--porch <em>but </em>that was a while a ago so...</p><p>"No, I'm fine." She'd just rip off the band-aid. A big ass band-aid.</p><p>"Yeah, you go ahead." Murphy jabbed his chin towards the stairwell, "I'll be right behind you."</p><p>Jasper hesitated and Murphy waved him off, now close to actually getting all pissy. He has an emotional fuse the size of her finger nail. "I've got Elle Woods here, go do something productive." Jasper gave him a conspirators grin and shot up the first flight. Swearing under his breath, Murphy called after him, "And that means no weed, Jordan!"</p><p>Clarke looked up the steps "You can go up with him, I'll--"</p><p>"I'm good where I am, actually," He said, leaning up against the metal railing. "But please, go ahead, your royal highness."</p><p>"I hate you."</p><p>"Don't we all."</p><p>"<em>Don't we all.</em>" She mocked in a too-high voice, but started up the stairs anyway. </p><hr/><p>It felt like shit, in case you were wondering. It's like if someone just sat there and poked your broken bone. 27 times. While you did water polo. </p><p>Honestly, she couldn't tell if the hole in her stomach or the stitches that kept pulling her skin every which way was more of a pain in the ass.</p><p>But Clarke didn't complain, mainly just taking exaggerated deep breathes and flipping Murphy off while he laughed. The rest of her screaming got sucked into the void of her head. <strike><em>I'll keep all my emotions right here, and then one day I'll die.</em></strike></p><p>Taking deep breath, she pushed through the metal slab they called a door, a flurry of voices meeting her ears. Monty and Raven were indeed on their wall of tech, pressing buttons and swiping screens and talking about PhD shit then pressing more buttons. Very sci-fi-y.</p><p>Clarke looked to the right, eyeing the hallway she knew led to pillows and clean clothes. She would sell whatever was left of her soul to just take a nap and never get up again. Well, saying that when it could quite accurately be interpreted as dying probably wasn't the best idea, but you get the point.</p><p>Monty was the first to see her, flashing a bright smile her direction. He would have definitely bombarded her with a hug had something not beeped on the screen in front of him. Raven had no such problemos. </p><p>She had just moved to wrap her arms around Clarke's shoulders--<em>why were all her friends so...huggy?</em>--when Jasper clicked his tongue and rolled his neck dramatically, "Be careful there, she might just judo flip you."</p><p>Wimp. </p><p>Raising a groomed brow, Raven stopped her advance and looked Clarke over. "I saw the feed, and unless Jasper suddenly got inhuman strength, you have some explaining to do."</p><p>Considering Jasper Jordan probably weighed the same as Clarke if not <em>less</em>, there was valid point in there somewhere. "I told all of you already, I--"</p><p>Clarke was cut off by a hand on her arm, it was Murph, looking between Raven and Clarke with pursed lips, "Come on, take a minute. Go get cleaned up, then you too can have your little chick flick moment."</p><p>Raven crossed her arms, "Fuck you."</p><p>Murphy ignored her and just pulled her arm again. Normally she would have told him to shove his suggestion where the sun don't shine but...something was off. He was toeing the line of calm <strike>again</strike>.</p><p>"I need to give Kane my report--"</p><p>"Just take a bath, Clarke." Monty said over his shoulder. "We can hold down the fort for a few minutes."</p><p>Fine. They were lucky for Monty's charm. He and Harper's sane demeanor's were the only things able to defuse the many...<em>strong personalities </em>of the people in their <strike>crew</strike> <strike>group</strike> team without having a screaming match.</p><p>Shooting another glare over her shoulder at the smirking Latina, she followed Murphy down the hall. They walked in silence, Murphy sauntering forward as usual while Clarke did her best to steel her spine for the oncoming lecture. Oh, John Murphy definitely was pissed off.</p><p>He had what Clarke liked to call a snapping turtle personality. To most people assume he's a lazy, bitter old bastard (which he is) and steer clear. But as soon as someone fucks with his stuff, they lose a finger. In this context, Murphy was going to snap at<em> her</em>  because someone <strike>screwed her up</strike> stabbed her and <em>that </em>asshole wasn't currently available to shoot at.</p><p>People are really good at not making sense while also being so very clear. <em>Oh, hell, she's starting to sound like her mother.</em></p><p>She only got more suspicious as they walked into their--well, <em>her</em>--little clinic, he didn't say a word. Trying her best to focus on the long ass nap she was going to take and not the brooding Neanderthal, Clarke dragged herself to the cabinets and started to pull out fresh bandages.</p><p>"So, on a scale of one to ten, how bad do you want to kill me right now?" She asked casually.</p><p>Murphy snorted from where he sat on the counter, content to not lift a finger. As per fucking usual. "I'm hovering somewhere in the mid-forties."</p><p>"Ooh, what made you so chipper today?" </p><p>"God<em>dammit</em>, Griffin. We didn't know where the hell you were--I didn't--" He paused, sorting through the labyrinth that was Murphy. He started again, his voice calm<em>er-ish</em>, "All I knew was that Harper saw that prick get the jump on you and we couldn't find you anywhere. You were gone almost eight hours before you called--"</p><p>"We've all lost contact for longer than that before, Murph. You know me, I was fine. I <em>am </em>fine." Almost.</p><p>He leaned his head back against a cabinet door, rolling his eyes, "Oh, don't start with that shit. Lie to Kane and Monty all you want, but I we've known each other too long for that and you know it."</p><p>She'd actually known Murphy since they were teens, well, <em>ahem</em>, scratch that. Murphy had been an<em> ass</em> to Clarke and Wells since sophomore year, just because they got A's and had important parents. It wasn't until the weekend of senior graduation that they'd stopped spitting in each other's faces. And since that summer they'd been thick as thieves,<strike> even if death was what had brought them together and what they now called a job</strike>. </p><p>And he had a point. <strike>They were</strike> She was literally about to treat her life threatening stab wound so there wasn't much room for her argument. But it wasn't the hole in her side that had him so ticked off. No, they'd both been in worse shape before.</p><p>It was that this time being in a cage or meat locker was an actual possibility. Because Cage and Dante were psychopaths.</p><p>Well aware she hadn't responded to his call-out, Clarke clicked her tongue, "I'm going to go take a long, hot shower."</p><p>Not bothering to wait for his response and knowing he'd come anyway, she scooped the packages off the counter and meandered down <em>another </em>hallway, the thought of warm water being her only will to move. </p><p>Stopping only to throw the items in her hands on the bed and putting her gun on a little table against the wall, she stalked right into her small bathroom.</p><p>Maybe she'd just shower with clothes on at this point. A girl can dream. While pealing off her jacket, Clarke could hear Abby's voice echoing in the tiled space, reminding her yet again that she should wait two days before getting sutures wet. What was worse was that she knew her mother-from-across-the-country was right. </p><p>Wet usually meant infection. <em>Fuck. Can't a girl just have a shower.</em></p><p>Clarke shimmed out of  her shirt--<em>Octavia's</em> shirt--and glanced in the mirror, scowling. It looked worse, but lighting was a bitch. After digging around in the cabinet for a minute she had her four thickest towels out on the counter. It'd have to do.</p><hr/><p>After half an hour of careful maneuvering and hot water and lots of strawberry body wash, Clarke Griffin stepped out of the shower <em>finally </em>feeling clean. You'd be surprised how weird it is to wash your hair and, for the first time since...well, ever, have it end shorter than normal.</p><p>She wiped the condensation of the mirror,  grateful it was long because <em>she </em>was not, and did her best to look at her stomach. It'd been a pain in the ass, but she'd managed to keep it dry enough, so after patting it down a bit, it was fine...Well, fine <em>enough</em>.</p><p>And as she turned to get dressed...there were no clothes. She hadn't gotten clothes. Clarke let out a groan that probably sounded like an animal getting strangled, but ripped open the door anyway. Dragging her feet more than she'd care to admit, she wandered to the dresser next to her bed in just her towel. Murphy was sprawled across the end of her bed like a beached whale, an arm slung over his eyes dramatically. </p><p>"How scandalous, Miss Griffin! What will the papers say?" He said, trying and failing to talk in a western accent. "I'm a married man!"</p><p>Clarke snorted despite herself, digging up some loose clothes, "Sure you are. Does Emori know? Cause <em>she </em>sure as hell didn't marry you."</p><p>"Not with you as my wing man, she won't."</p><p>"I'm the best wing man on the fucking planet." She said, padding back to the bathroom, "And we both know I'm better at talking to women than you."</p><p>"Don't use your sexuality against me, you prick!" He hollered as she slammed the door. </p><p>A minute later Clarke walked out of the bathroom in soft shorts and a bra, a ratty shirt and towel slung over her shoulder. Murph eyes went over the handful of visible bruises and scabs, eventually catching on her stomach.</p><p>He gave a low whistle, "Nice stitches there, Sally."</p><p>"Ha ha." Clarke said, sound about as amused as she felt. Which was that of a kid who just saw the clown car blow up. Sitting down on the bed, she held out her hands with the <em>gimme </em>gesture and he handed her some Neosporin. 'Cause adults use adult ointments. And gauze would have to wait a few hours, wrapping up stitches when they were't dry was a stupid move.</p><p>"You good?" Murphy asked as she carefully spread it over the tender skin.</p><p>Clarke was tempted to say her pinky toes felt fine but after a quick trial run she soon came to the conclusion that they were indeed <em>not </em>okay. Wearing her ass-kicking boots for over twelve hours really felt like shit. "Well, my eyebrows don't hurt." </p><p>That was also a lie but whatever. And though everything felt better and fresh it also felt...raw. There was no doubt in Clarke's mind she'd accidentally scrubbed off a few of her scabs or irritated some of bruises.</p><p>"How about you? Don't lie, we doctors can smell them," Clarke mused, wiping her hands off on the towel.</p><p>Murphy snorted putting his hands behind his head, "You'll be a doctor when I'm Gordon Ramsey," Well, he had the cooking skills and potty mouth down, all he needed was to be British and blonde. "But I'm fine, my soul is currently in a blender, but nothing too bad."</p><p>"Oh, that's good to hear," She said and very carefully put on the shirt, whatever logo had once been on the front faded into nothing more than a blob.</p><p>His smile was purely wicked as he patted the bed--<em>her </em>bed that had been clean and made neatly before Murphy's greasy ass hair--"Come darling, pretend we're in Havana or some shit."</p><p>"I have stuff to do. <em>You </em>have stuff to do."</p><p>"Monty said they'd be fine. Chill for a minute."</p><p>Clarke stuck her tongue out at him but laid down next to him anyway.</p><p>She looked at the ceiling, finding a new little crack near the corner and the outline of what she would call an octopus till the day she died, in the plaster's design. "So. Are there any good leftovers? You said I could have your baked ziti and it better still be there."</p><p>"I think it was Jasper's breakfast. None of us really had time to make Eggs Benedict." That was enough to tell her what was wrong. The implied<em> 'Because we were busy trying to figure out if you were fucking dead'  </em>was obvious enough in his tone. "I'll make you more ziti for your birthday."</p><p>Clarke pouted, "But that's a month away!" </p><p>"Consider it your punishment for getting stabbed." </p><p>"You suck." Only Murphy would be stubborn enough for this level of bastard. No one took her ziti privileges without paying the price. Oh, no, no, no, Jasper and him were on her <em>list</em>, they won't know what hit 'em. But it being common knowledge he'd never let Clarke coax it out of him, she went for the next best thing. "Fine. But you have to make me a pumpkin pie for dessert."</p><p>"Pumpkin pie on your birthday? Look, I know it's on Halloween but I w--"</p><p>She elbowed him in the ribs, "No, dumbass. I already put in my order for my birthday cake," Oh, yeah. It was going to be fucking amazing. "Tonight. As my reward."</p><p>"For what?" He asked dryly.</p><p>"For not telling Harper and Raven where your Doritos stashes are." He looked at her from the corner of his eye, denial on his lips, "All six of them. I'm not fucking around. I want my pie."</p><p>"You're a cold-hearted bitch, you know that, right?"</p><p>That was the closest to a <em>yes </em>she was going to get.</p><p>This is what a real friends with benefits does. Who needs booty calls when you have free cake and pie at your disposal. Any one worth their salt will tell you a New York Cheesecake of <strike>a good</strike> Murphy's caliber is a lot harder to find than good sex.</p><p>They stayed there for a few minutes, Clarke's spine doing that weird thing where it, like, relaxed and stretched and felt off but good at the same time. </p><p>"The short hair is giving me some serious Resident Evil vibes," Murphy said, fighting a yawn.</p><p>"You'll have to wait 'till I start shooting at zombies, then we'll see."</p><p>"Hopefully sooner than later."</p><p>Sighing, Clarke sat up on her elbows, bones aching, "Let's go get this shit show over with."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Heh, heh, heh...so. Bromance? Too much bromance??? I don't know. Plot development? Zero plot development??? I don't know.<br/>If you're a returning reader, first: why? Thanks, but why?, second: I've gone back and changed/added details in the the other chapters so if you care enough, you might want to look through again, if not, just beware.</p><p>So yeah. Sorry for taking forever. Hope this satisfies you till the next chapter???</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Congrats, you apparently were able to stomach my writing, so yay for you. That's usually a good sign. </p><p>I'd love feedback on my interpretation of spy!Clarke if you have any. If not, just ignore my ranting.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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